Rosalie and her mother jumped hastily up, and, thrusting the Testament into
the box, they hurried down the caravan steps and went into the theatre.
There were still a few minutes before the performance commenced; and
Rosalie made her mother sit down on a chair in the little room behind the
stage, that she might rest as long as possible.

Several of the company came up to the poor woman, and asked her how she
was, in tones which spoke of rough though kindly sympathy. Rosalie looked
earnestly in their faces, and read there that they did not think her mother
equal to her work; and it filled her little heart with sorrowful
forebodings.

She had never seen her mother look more lovely than she did at the
beginning of the play; there was a bright colour in her face, and her
beautiful eyes shone more brilliantly than ever before. Rosalie really
hoped she must be better, to look so well as that. But there was a weary,
sorrowful expression in her face, which went to the child's heart. Her
mother repeated the words of the play as if they were extremely distasteful
to her, and as if she could hardly bear the sound of her own voice. In her
eyes there was a wistful yearning, as if she were looking at and longing
for something far, far away from the noisy theatre. She never smiled at the
bursts of applause; she repeated her part almost mechanically, and, from
time to time, Rosalie saw her mother's eyes fill with tears. She crept to
her side, and put her little hand in hers as they went up to the platform
after the first performance was over.

Her mother's hand was burning with fever, and yet she shivered from head to
foot as they went out on the platform into the chill night air.

'Oh, mammie dear,' said Rosalie, in a whisper, 'you ought to go back to the